


don't touch me

by professortennant



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Episode: s06e06 Abyss (Stargate), F/M, PTSD, post-episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 08:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15433110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: For all that Samantha Carter is his strength, it’s becoming apparently obvious–from the snake in his head and his trips to the sarcophagus–that she is also his weakness.





	don't touch me

**Author's Note:**

> prompted on tumblr as "don't fucking touch me"

She sits vigil at his bedside, her hand resting besides his on the infirmary bed, pinkie brushing the outside of his hand in soft, barely-there motions. The infirmary is quiet and calm, so different from the flurry of activity earlier in the day when Janet had called for intubation kits, epinephrine, and pain killers and ordered the Colonel to stay awake, to keep fighting, that he was  _home._

Sam knows she will read his report in a few weeks, will read about every gruesome thing Ba’al did to him in the time he was gone. It’s her fault, all her fault, and she will take every drop of blame he bestows upon her. She’ll shore up against the hurt and the self-recrimination and take it because if it wasn’t for her, if it wasn’t for the way she pleaded with him, this never would have happened.

But first–first she will sit with him in this quiet, dark room with her hand just barely pressing to his and reassure herself that he is alive and safe and home.

She wishes it were easier; wishes she could slide into the starchy infirmary sheets next to him, rub soothing circles against the reddened, angry-looking skin of his chest and abdomen, rest her head on his shoulder and nuzzle up against his chin and jaw and mold herself to him so he would never be taken from her again. 

But she can’t. 

She can only take these little moments–a pinkie finger brushing softly against the ridge of his palm. She wishes she could press her lips to the pulse beating in rapid-fire beats beneath his skin, another assurance.

Movement from behind her, an office light switching on, alerts her to the presence of another SGC personnel nearby and she stands a last look at his face, knowing she should go. They’ve been so good, so professional, up until now. There’s no reason to get the rumor mill started again because she can’t stop shaking and wishing and wanting.

As she turns away, though, he begins to shift and whimper in his bed, mumbled, incoherent words spilling from his thin, pale lips. The heart monitor begins to beep wildly, his blood pressure spiking dangerously.

Without thought, she goes to him, one hand on his face and the other on his chest, shaking gently. “Colonel,” she says urgently. But he continues to shake, his movements getting more desperate, more jerky. She calls to him again, patting his cheek and smoothing up into his hair.

“Jack!”

That does it and his eyes shoot open, wild and unfocused. She barely has time to feel relief before big hands are pushing her away, sending her careening into the nearby crash cart. She yelps with pain as the metal handlebar slams into the back of her head and she knows immediately from the gush of warmth down her neck that she’s cut herself.

In the bed in front of her, the Colonel’s spiking heart rate stutters and falls into something resembling normalcy and he’s left sitting up right, hair mussed in all directions, chest heaving, and a look of abject horror on his face as he takes her in–pale, shocked, and blood streaming from behind her neck.

“No, no, no,” he mumbles to himself, hands covering his face. “You weren’t supposed to be here. He’ll find you, Sam. You need to get out of here. He’ll kill you, he’ll kill you…”

She stands on shaky feet, one hand cupped tightly to her head to stem the blood flow. She’s woozy and lightheaded but she needs to get to Jack first, needs to reassure him that he’s fine and safe. That  _she’s_  fine and safe.

“Colonel,” she starts, softly, hand reaching for his blanket-covered leg. “It’s okay.” But he still shakes and moans, looking wildly about the infirmary in confusion. He’s still half-asleep, not quite sure where he is and why he isn’t being tortured to death once more. 

Sam’s had her fair share of exposure to soldiers with PTSD and she approaches with caution. Despite everything, the itch beneath her skin that longs to touch him, to reassure him, to reassure herself, is creeping beneath her veins. 

Her hand slides up his leg, resting on the inside of his thigh. It’s their touch–the one they allow themselves when the calls get close and they need the hot heat found along the inside of a thigh to calm their racing, desperate hearts. 

“Jack,” she starts, fingers curling into his skin. His eyes dart from her hand on his thigh to the blood on her neck and the paleness of her skin and the monitoring pads stuck on his chest and something  _snaps_  inside of him.

“ _Christ_ , Sam. Did I–” He gestures to her bleeding head, eyes dark and pained and fingers reaching for the call button. She’s getting progressively more unsteady on her feet and he needs her to be okay, needs her to be taken care of  _now._  

The call button signals and he knows it’s a matter of time before Fraiser and her team will be there to sort everything out. She’s going to be okay.

But Sam–his Sam–is stubborn. She staggers closer and her hand trails alongside his his thigh and up to the soft jut of his hip. It sparks desire within him–against all odds–he  _loves_  the feeling of her hot, little hand on his body, anchoring and heavy. He flashes to the way Ba’al taunted him, promised him that if he didn’t accept his fate, if he didn’t take every sharp blade to the stomach, he would capture his Major Samantha Carter. He hears Ba’al’s words echo in his head, “ _It’s either you or her, O’Neill.”_

He would never allow it to be her; not in a thousand lifetimes. 

For all that Samantha Carter is his strength, it’s becoming apparently obvious–from the snake in his head and his trips to the sarcophagus–that she is also his weakness. 

Her touch burns him and he feels sickened at the knowledge that he’s caused her pain– _physical, bloody_  pain. He needs her gone, needs to remember how to breathe without searching for the scent of her, needs to remember how to make his heart beat in time to something other than  _Sam Sam Sam._

He jerks away from her touch, desperate to be alone, to lick his wounds in peace and remember who he is when a Goa’uld isn’t piecing him back together.

Jack snarls at her, “Don’t fucking touch me!”

In an instant, her hand is gone, jerked back to her side like he’s burned her, hurt her. He knows he has. Hurt and disbelief stare back at him from bright blue eyes and he hates himself more now than he has in a long time.

“Just,” he sighs out, turning on his side and gesturing over his shoulder at the medics who have rushed in an begun fussing over Carter’s wound. “Just go, Carter.”

He pretends the sound echoing throughout the infirmary is the door and not the shattering sound of heartbreak.


End file.
